The deal was on the table — and I wasn't the kind of man who liked to let good opportunities rot under the weight of overthinking.
"Let's wrap it now," I said simply, my tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Jose blinked at the speed of my response. "Now? As in—right now?"
I gave him a small nod, tapping my fingers against the table. "Why wait? Opportunity doesn't linger. Either it's yours, or someone else grabs it."
Kate and Sabine were already moving before the last word left my mouth. The two of them were a machine — efficiency and precision incarnate. Within seconds, Sabine's holographic tablet projected a blank template, and Kate started dictating the terms aloud, her voice sharp and methodical.
"Ten percent transfer of Panamic Vision shares to Meteor Studio Holdings, full rights of cooperation clause, intellectual property protection under Section 7—"
"Clause 12, add the creative autonomy condition," I interrupted casually.
Kate nodded once and continued, her tone steady, her fingers dancing over the tablet. The soft hum of her voice mixed with the faint hiss of Gordon's kitchen grill behind us — oddly domestic for a multimillion-dollar negotiation.
Within minutes, the contract was complete. Sabine slid the digital copy toward Jose. "All standard. Nothing hidden, I promise. Meteor doesn't play that kind of game."
Jose gave a short, disbelieving laugh as he read through it. "You people move faster than any legal department in Hollywood."
Kate smirked. "That's why we win."
I didn't add anything. My eyes just watched him, calm, waiting.
Finally, Jose exhaled and signed, his digital pen flicking across the holographic screen. The contract blinked once, confirming the exchange.
"Congratulations," Sabine said flatly, saving a backup copy to Meteor's internal system.
Jose leaned back in his seat, looking between us with a strange mix of admiration and disbelief. "You really don't waste time, do you?"
"Bureaucracy is the death of genius," I said. "I'd rather not catch it…"
He laughed quietly at that, but I wasn't joking. Inwardly, I felt the subtle vibration in my earpiece — Sunday's confirmation tone.
"Transaction confirmed. Additional 40% holdings remain concealed under subsidiary fronts. You now control 50% of Panamic Vision."
I didn't react. My face stayed impassive as I lifted my glass of water. Half the studio. He didn't need to know that yet.
Across the room, Ramona leaned against a column near the door, her arms crossed, eyes scanning every face that glanced our way. Her team was on high alert; no one got within ten meters of our table without getting a death glare first.
Meanwhile, Cassandra sat beside me, jotting notes into her personal console — precise, businesslike, already documenting every micro-step for Meteor Entertainment's growing records.
I watched her for a second — her focus, her calm — then looked back at Jose, who was still admiring how smooth everything had gone.
He had something most of the vultures outside didn't: respect. Not fear, not greed — genuine respect. That alone made him worth closing the deal with.
Martin Berg had been unusually quiet since the signing — until he suddenly leaned forward, unable to contain himself anymore.
"Sael," he began, his voice a bit too rushed, "I—about the script." His eyes darted toward Jose for a split second before he pressed on. "If it's possible… I'd like to work on it immediately…. I know it's early, but—"
Jose gave him a look — somewhere between amusement and disbelief — then turned to me for my verdict.
I shrugged lightly. "Sure, You're the one running the studio," I said. "Director's your domain…. You decide."
Jose blinked once, then smiled faintly, clearly relieved I wasn't the type to micromanage. He looked to Martin. "It's yours, Martin…. Just, don't make me regret it... That is one hell of a good script…"
For a heartbeat, Martin just sat there, stunned — like he couldn't believe he'd actually heard those words. Then his entire face split into an uncontrollable grin.
"Thank you—thank you, both of you," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I won't waste it. I swear it. I'll make this film something the world's never seen before."
I leaned back, expression unreadable, studying the man. His eyes were bright with the same fire I saw in myself whenever I talked about creation — that obsessive spark that burned logic to ash.
"Then prove it," I said softly.
He met my gaze and nodded like a man taking an oath. "I will."
Jose chuckled beside him, clapping his shoulder. "We'll make history with this one, Martin. I can feel it."
Kate, sitting across from me, watched the two men quietly. There was a glint in her eyes — that faint, rare look of admiration she rarely let show. Later, she'd tell me he reminded her of me when I first started Meteor Studio. I could already see it in her expression.
Ramona, meanwhile, was still keeping her hawk's eye on the entrance, her earpiece humming with occasional updates. She caught my glance and gave a small, silent nod — everything under control.
I looked back to Martin, who was still buzzing with excitement, his hands animated as he described shots, lighting, emotional tone — as if the movie already existed in his mind. His passion was genuine. And though I didn't show it, I respected that.
Once the excitement calmed, I turned back to Jose. "Any updates about the movie, I want them going through Cassandra first… She'll filter what matters and what doesn't."
Jose raised an eyebrow, clearly curious. "And who exactly is Cassandra?"
Before I could answer, Cassandra smoothly placed down her pen and offered her hand. "Cassandra Roberts. Chief Operating Officer, Meteor Entertainment."
Jose froze. "Wait—the Cassandra Roberts? From Sun Flower ENT.?"
Martin nearly dropped his coffee. "The one who ran the top three idol agencies in the country?"
Cassandra's smile didn't falter. "The very same…. Though that title's outdated. Sun Flower's about to fold."
Jose looked at Cassandra, naturally knew about Sun Flower ENT sad predicament, "You decided to let go, huh,"
She leaned back, calm and elegant, her tone even. "Yeah, It was about time to… beside, Joining Meteor isn't betrayal — its survival…. Sun Flower was a dying company pretending to glow… And I have no intention of going down with it."
Jose looked from her to me, then back again, clearly trying to piece together the bigger picture. "So… you're saying—"
"She's saying," I interrupted mildly, "that Meteor bought and hired her and her entire company..."
Cassandra nodded once, her tone now carrying the faintest edge of pride. "And honestly? It's the smarter move. Meteor Studio isn't a small player anymore… It's folding studios, directors, and even entire companies into its orbit. That's not ambition — that's gravity."
Her words hit harder than she probably realized. The table fell quiet. Even Martin stopped fidgeting. For a long moment, all that could be heard was the soft clink of glassware and the low hum of conversation from other diners — blissfully unaware that the future of Hollywood had just been rewritten over donuts.
Jose finally let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. "You people move faster than an earthquake. I've seen mergers, takeovers, hostile buyouts — but this?" He gestured vaguely toward me. "This feels like a quiet apocalypse."
I smiled faintly, sipping my drink. "Apocalypse has such a negative tone. Think of it as… evolution."
Ramona's voice came over the earpiece. "Press just doubled outside. We're probably live on a dozen channels right now. Congratulations — you've officially turned lunch into a media event."
I chuckled, leaning back. "Then let them watch the show more..."
Cassandra smirked beside me; pen poised over her console. "Should I start drafting a statement?"
I shook my head. "No need. Just let them be…."
Outside, the glass walls glowed with camera flashes. Inside, the world quietly shifted another inch on its axis. I didn't need to say it aloud — but I knew it. Meteor Studio wasn't just entering Hollywood anymore. It was consuming it, and it's slowly worrying many people.
The door to the kitchen swung open with a soft clack.
A familiar aroma — savory, buttery, rich — drifted through the air.
Gordon Kamsay emerged carrying a massive silver tray, each plate crowned with a perfect beef wellington. The golden-brown crust glistened under the soft restaurant light, the smell of seared beef and truffle oil filling every corner.
Even the most stoic of my company — Jose, Martin, Heminem, Wayne East — paused mid-sentence, their eyes tracking the food like mesmerized hawks.
"Damn," Wayne muttered, nostrils flaring, "that smells like money."
Gordon chuckled, setting each plate down with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. "Beef wellingtons for everyone… Didn't think I'd ever serve these many millionaires at once, but here we are."
Jose raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "And you are…?"
Before Gordon could answer, I gestured toward him with my fork, grinning. "Gordon Kamsay. A great chef—though he doesn't know it yet."
Gordon laughed nervously, waving a hand. "Don't start rumors now. I'm just a small restaurant owner trying to trick this guy into promoting my place online."
"Trick?" I smirked. "You call this tricking? You've got the makings of a celebrity chef — strict, loud, probably curses too much, and if someone burns a sauce, I bet you'd throw the whole pan at them."
The entire table erupted in laughter. Gordon blinked in surprise, then broke into a sheepish grin.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You really pegged me fast, didn't ya?"
"Occupational hazard," I said, slicing into my food. "Spotting talent's kind of what I do."
From the other side of the table, Heminem snorted, elbowing Wayne. "Man's out here diagnosing careers like a fortune teller with Wi-Fi."
Wayne leaned back, grinning. "Bro doesn't even try to flex, but he's flexing harder than anyone I've met."
Sabine, seated behind me, typed a note quietly into her tablet. I caught a glimpse of the words: "Observation: Sael's intuitive detection of latent potential extends beyond game dev — applicable across entertainment and culinary industries."
I chuckled to myself. Leave it to Sabine to turn lunch into a research report.
After serving, Gordon retreated to the kitchen with a brief bow, leaving us to eat.
The beef wellington melted against my tongue — tender meat wrapped in a crisp pastry shell, the flavor almost nostalgic. I'd seen this dish a thousand times on screens back in my old world, but tasting it now, from the hands of the man who would be Gordon Ramsay, was surreal.
I leaned back in my chair, savoring it. 'Funny,' I thought. 'In my old world, he was already a legend…. Here, he's just trying to survive.'
Across the table, Cassandra wiped her lips delicately with a napkin, eyes glinting. "You look like a man enjoying a victory meal," she teased.
"Maybe I am."
She smirked. "Good. Because I'm about to ruin it with business talk."
Kate chuckled. "You always do."
Cassandra ignored her. "Sael, be honest—how confident are you about the film's success? You've been calm about it this whole time, but this project isn't small…. It's massive."
"Absolutely confident," I said immediately, no hesitation in my voice.
Martin glanced up from his plate, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Even with a $200 million budget?"
I nodded. "If we handle it right, that's the minimum. But with Meteor Studio running CG and effects, the cost will feel like a bargain."
Jose leaned forward, surprised. "Meteor will handle the CGI too?"
"Who else would I trust?" I asked, taking another bite.
Kate set down her fork and joined in. "He means it literally. If M.S applies its current rendering tech to cinema, it's over. Nobody could compete."
Wayne, mid-chew, mumbled, "Man's about to make movies look fake next to his games."
Even Heminem stopped eating, looking impressed. "That's cold. You don't even need a label or a studio. You are the industry."
Jose laughed, half in disbelief, half in awe. "And here I thought I was dealing with a game developer. Turns out I'm sitting with the future of Hollywood."
I smiled faintly. "You're exaggerating."
Cassandra wasn't smiling. "No, he's not. You've already taken over half the entertainment market without even trying."
Kate leaned closer, tapping her finger against her glass. "And he hasn't even dropped the soundtrack detail yet."
Jose blinked. "Soundtrack?"
I nodded. "I'll handle it myself."
The silence that followed was priceless. Martin's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "You mean—you'll compose it too?"
"Why not?" I shrugged. "I wrote the music for Silent Hill: First Fear and Warhammer: Space Marine. People still talk about those tracks."
Jose slumped back, laughing helplessly. "You're insane."
"Maybe," I said, "but I deliver."
Kate hid her smile behind her hand. Cassandra, though, leaned forward, pen tapping her chin. "So, just to clarify—CGI by Meteor Studio, music by you personally, direction by Martin, and Panamic Vision managing production?"
"That's the plan."
She exhaled slowly. "Then this is going to be a hell of a good movie,"
It happened right after I took another bite. Forks clattered. Glasses froze halfway to lips. Every face around the table stared at me like I'd just claimed to have invented fire.
Cassandra was the first to break the silence. "That's ridiculous," she said flatly.
I smiled faintly. "I'm not joking."
Kate sighed, stepping in smoothly. "He's not bluffing…. When he says something, it's already calculated. You just don't see the math yet."
Jose still looked skeptical but intrigued. "Then tell us. Why are you that sure this movie will blow up?"
I leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. My tone was calm, conversational, but the words carried weight.
"One: the script. It's a once-in-a-generation story — primal, universal, and it plays on both awe and fear. Two: my name alone sells. Every project with Meteor attached trends within minutes. Three: the visuals and sound will redefine realism. The world's ready for wonder again — it just doesn't know it."
Martin exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "When you say it like that, it sounds… prophetic."
"Not prophecy," I said. "Just experience."
In truth, I could feel the ghost of nostalgia rising in my chest. They didn't know what that script really was — Jurassic Park, 1993, Steven Spielberg's masterpiece. A story about science, hubris, and the awe of creation.
A movie that, in my old world, changed cinema forever. It grossed over a billion dollars, revolutionized CGI, and inspired generations of filmmakers and dreamers. Its roar echoed across decades. And now, in this world — where creativity had gone stale — it would shake the foundation of art itself.
I glanced at Jose, who was quietly staring at me as if trying to peer into my mind. Martin, meanwhile, had gone quiet — that same tremor of reverence he'd shown when first reading the script now returning to his face.
Cassandra, sharp as ever, narrowed her eyes. "You know something," she said softly.
I met her gaze. "Maybe."
For a long beat, no one spoke. The room felt charged — as if everyone could sense that whatever I'd just unleashed wasn't just another business move. It was history, disguised as dinner conversation.
Finally, Kate raised her glass, breaking the silence. "To Meteor Studio," she said.
Jose chuckled, lifting his own. "And to the film that's going to make us all very rich."
Martin raised his, eyes gleaming. "And to the kid who's rewriting the playbook."
I smiled, touching my glass to theirs. "Please don't call me Kid, Guys…."
The table laughed, but behind that laughter was tension — the electric kind that comes before a storm. As I leaned back in my chair, the faint buzz of Sunday's voice brushed against my ear.
"Public chatter indicates early rumors of a possible movie talks with you and Martin.'"
I didn't react. Just sipped my drink slowly, eyes drifting toward the glass window where the paparazzi still waited.
"That was quite fast… but, Perfect," I murmured under my breath.
The lunch had mellowed into that calm, post-storm quiet—the kind that follows when everyone at the table has realized they've just witnessed something history-defining. Martin and Jose were still reeling from the implications of what had just transpired. Across the table, Gordon Kamsay's staff cleared empty plates with reverent silence, as though afraid to break the spell. The beef wellington was long gone, but the taste of ambition still hung thick in the air.
I leaned back in my seat, stretching slightly. My mind was already running the numbers again—not just profits, but possibilities.
If Jurassic Park failed, it wouldn't just be a loss; it would be a statement that even the greatest story could falter in the wrong hands. In that case, neither Martin nor Jose would have a place in Meteor Studio's future film division.
But if they pulled it off?
Then Hollywood wouldn't just tremble—it would kneel. I glanced up to see everyone's expectant gazes still on me. The silence was becoming too heavy, so I decided to ease it with a grin.
"Call it my estimate," I said, waving my hand casually. "Don't think too much about it."
The table erupted into a round of nervous laughter, tension breaking like thin glass. Forks clinked again. Someone—probably Wayne—whispered, "Man said 'estimate' like it wasn't a billion-dollar prophecy."
Martin leaned forward, cheeks flushed from excitement and wine. "You know, Sael," he said, eyes gleaming, "if you ever decide to act, I'd direct you myself."
That caught me off guard. "Act?" I raised an eyebrow. "Not sure about that. I'm more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy."
Martin chuckled, undeterred. "Behind the scenes or not, you've got presence. You speak and everyone listens. That's star energy, my friend."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe someday, then. If the opportunity's there."
Jose laughed softly, shaking his head. "The way you say that… I feel like someday you actually will do it."
"Maybe," I said again, tone mild but amused. "Never say never."
As they laughed, I caught Sabine's eyes. She was studying me with that analytical gaze of hers, already writing mental notes. To her, I wasn't just negotiating or dreaming aloud—I was planting seeds. Seeds that would grow into rumors, deals, and expectations.
Beside her, Cassandra smirked knowingly, sipping her wine. She could see it too. He just dangled Hollywood's biggest bait without even realizing it. Or maybe I did realize it. Maybe I was enjoying it too much.
Jose and Martin finally rose from their seats, enthusiasm practically radiating off them. They shook my hand one last time—firm, confident, full of renewed fire.
Jose looked like a man who'd just been given a second life. "You'll have our best, Sael. No delays, no compromises."
"I know," I said, smiling. "That's why I gave it to you."
They left together; heads bent in animated discussion. I could already picture them plotting every frame, every budget line, every camera angle. Good. They'd need that drive. Once they were gone, I turned my attention to the two men who'd been waiting patiently throughout the chaos.
Heminem and Wayne East sat across from me, both leaning forward slightly, their usual swagger dialed down to respect. They'd waited long enough to deserve it.
"Sorry for the wait," I said, leaning my elbows on the table. "Business comes first, but now—music."
Wayne grinned, gold chain glinting under the light. "Finally. We thought you'd never get to us."
Heminem, cool and composed, tapped his finger against the table. "We listened to your samples. That beat's something else, man. You're not just dabbling—you're feeling it."
I nodded. "I make music the same way I make games. It's all about rhythm—moment, build, release."
They exchanged a look that told me I'd said something right.
"I don't mind working with you," I said simply. "If you're serious about the craft. Both of you have talent. Real talent. I can see it."
Wayne blinked, taken aback, then smiled wide. "That's the first time someone said that without asking for a cut."
Heminem smirked. "That's because he's not asking. He's choosing."
I chuckled quietly. "Something like that."
Our conversation turned casual, the kind of banter that only happens when egos drop and artists start talking shop.
Wayne leaned forward, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Yo, Sael, you know a bunch of rappers already trying to beef with you online, right?"
I blinked. "Beef? With me?"
Heminem chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah. It's normal. You're the hot topic. Everyone wants a piece of your name. Diss tracks, collab baits, fake drama—you name it."
I laughed quietly. "I see. The old 'clout through conflict' trick. Never changes."
Wayne raised his drink. "That's the game, man. You big? They come for you. It's how we survive."
"Understandable," I said, taking a sip of water. "But I'm not really into playing those games. I make what I want, how I want. I like being free."
Heminem's grin softened into something more genuine. "That's rare. Most people say that—but you actually live it."
Wayne clinked his glass against mine. "Freedom. I'll drink to that."
I smiled, raising my glass slightly. "Cheers to that, then."
The sound of the glasses meeting was quiet, but it carried weight.
There was something strangely grounding about the moment — three men from completely different worlds, bound not by money or fame, but by the simple joy of creation.
The talk turned easy after that—stories, jokes, a few quips about the industry. Wayne cracked one about a rival rapper calling himself "the next big thing," only for Heminem to dryly add, "Yeah, until the next next big thing shows up."
After a while, the two rappers relaxed enough to talk about their craft — their struggles, their visions. Wayne wanted to redefine rhythm with modern soul; Heminem wanted to tear apart fake narratives with raw lyricism. They weren't gangsters, not really. They were artists wearing armor.
At one point, Heminem smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Funny, though. We got gangs behind us. You've got an army."
I tilted my head. "Kinda," I admitted.
Wayne whistled low. "Shiiid. Army versus gangs, huh? No wonder everyone's scared of you."
The whole table erupted in laughter — even Ramona cracked a grin from her post near the door.
Heminem leaned forward again, voice lower now. "Jokes aside, you're different, man. You talk about creation like it's sacred. Most folks just want a paycheck. You're chasing something else…a legacy."
I met his gaze, and for a moment, the playful air shifted into something heavier — respectful, real.
"I guess I am," I said softly. "Legacy's all we really leave behind, right?"
He nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Then you're on the right path. Because right now, you're making history whether you want to or not."
I chuckled, leaning back in my chair again. "History, huh? Feels more like chaos."
Wayne laughed. "Same thing, bro. History's just chaos that worked."
That made me laugh harder than I expected. It was true. The lunch ended with handshakes and promises — no contracts, no lawyers, just mutual understanding. Heminem and Wayne would start working on the beats I'd given them, and I'd swing by later to see what they came up with.
As they left, I sat back, staring at the dim lights reflecting off the restaurant's glass walls. Outside, the paparazzi were still waiting, unaware that the biggest deals of the decade had just been sealed inside over donuts and beef wellington.
Kate stood beside me, arms crossed. "You look… content."
"I am," I said quietly. "Today was good."
She smiled faintly. "For a stop to get donut… it somehow turned into the Hollywood biggest business talk,"
I laughed softly, eyes still on the city beyond the window. "Maybe. Or maybe it was just lunch."
Ramona's voice came through the earpiece. "Boss, cars are ready."
I nodded, standing up. Cassandra and Sabine followed, gathering notes and devices. The air outside was still buzzing and noise blending into a chaotic symphony of LA daylike. As we stepped toward the exit, I couldn't help but smile under my mask.